


Ready To Drop

by obfuscatress



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Bondlock, Gen, Insomnia, Q is a Holmes, Sleep Deprivation, partial kidfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-31
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-01-27 19:30:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 9,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1719998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obfuscatress/pseuds/obfuscatress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles and one-shots about Q's life as Quartermaster with some very demanding agents, the added weight of insomnia, and  massive sleep deprivation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**_I_ **

Q heard the footsteps long before the man had even reached him. He had learned to distinguish them, single out the pattern from the stream of thuds in the branch. Every last second was used wisely before he turned on his heel to greet the man behind him, ”007, did you come here to return your equipment?” Both of them knew the answer. Bond didn't bother to look guilty anymore and Q didn't bother an attempt at a smile when he asked.

”There was an incident.” Bond replied. He radiated with calm and did not look sorry at all.

Q sighed and rolled his eyes, ”Of course there was.” It was only his second year as the head of the Q-Branch, but he had already stopped scolding Bond about his equipment. Exceptions were rare, perhaps he managed to lecture the agent after one of his better slept nights, but even that wasn’t a guarantee anymore.

Bond knew it was his cue to leave, but he didn’t budge. Instead he stood there with his hands in his pocket and eyes focused on Q’s slender fingers that typed rapidly. He had no idea what Q  was typing. Not even after he glanced at the file that was displayed on the screen up front. The typing was so rhythmical it felt almost like a lullaby. It let his mind slide away from the present to some place far away, the name lost in the loops on his thoughts.

Seconds turned into minutes and eventually, half an hour later, Bond realised he still stood there behind Q. The man hadn’t acknowledged him in away, but apparently shifted to another file. Bond left him standing there without a goodbye. He thought it better not to disturb the Quartermaster. However Q’s fingers slowed on the keys as he counted the departing agent’s footsteps.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**_II_ **

Time was a concept that became hazy to the Quartermaster when he left his desk. He had no idea if it was before or past midnight when he made it to his flat, but the alarm was set for 07:23 and that was all he needed to know.

Q set his bag down and hung his coat up. The rest of his clothes fell into a heap at his feet as he brushed his teeth while he undressed. He let out a grunt; picked them up and shoved them carelessly into an already full laundry basket. One more day ’til the weekend, he thought as he sank into the comfort of his cool bed with one last relieved sigh. Not that it would bring any relief.

It would all start again tomorrow, but for now he could rest, even if only for a few short hours.


	3. Chapter 3

**_III_ **

It was the mornings that wanted to make him call it quits and move to the Bahamas. And yet he got out of bed even day. Silenced the three alarm clocks that were scattered all over the room on his way to the bathroom. He took his showers cold, because the warm ones were too comforting and he had fallen asleep under the hot spray one too many times. It was the reason his nose was runny for the better part of the year.

He threw longing glances at his bed like he had to leave a lover for good. Q was well aware of the trace of warmth that still lingered in the carelessly crumpled sheets, but he had work to do and so he pushed away his own needs.

He was grateful that it was the end of summer when the sun still made an attempt to rise at a time when he could see. Q stood by the window, fingers curled around his cup of Earl Grey. The golden orb, which sustained life on earth, peaked shyly over the skyline and casted enough light to bathe everything in shades of orange and purple. Q pressed his forhead against the cool window. This was his peace, the few minutes he had in the mornings when he inhaled the scent of his favorite beverage and let the liquid’s warmth in his stomach lull him into the feeling of comfort.


	4. Chapter 4

**_IV_ **

Q felt the heavy weight of the thirty hour shift press on him. He had sworn to kill Bond many times by now, because the man was not capable of doing even the simplest task like walk down a hallway without making something explode. It was the exact reason why Q would never build him an exploding pen. God knows what might happen.

”Take the next turn to the left Bond,” he instructed, ”and this time try to turn to the correct left.” Q let the comments from the agent slide by unnoted. His eyes were focused on the red dot on the map and keeping it there.

R left her own coffee cup on the edge of his desk with a look of pity when Q and Bond once again got into an argument. Q guzzled the caffeine rich drink, grateful for his employee’s thoughtfulness. He didn’t like the bitter taste of coffee opposed to his sweet Earl Grey, but now was not the time to make a fuss. He hadn’t had anything to eat since lunch, which was a good ten hours ago. It made the liquid rumble uncomfortably in his stomach.

His thoughts were drawn back to the mission, ”The door is locked. Can you open it or do I need to blow it up?”

”I’ll open it, give me a minute.” Q tapped a few keys and shifted to another file, ”Better make that three and I’ll have disabled all alarms.”

Bond huffed, ”I don’t have three minutes.”

It was an unspoken warning that he would blow the door. Q started to babble and curse, threatening to decapitate the man if he didn’t manage to blow his own head off before Q could get a hold on him while he pulled every last ounce of strength and worked at full speed. At two minutes and twenty-three seconds he was just one command away from shutting down the security system. His hands froze on the key as the explosion rang in his ears.

”Bond!”


	5. Chapter 5

V

Q snapped awake in the dark. His arms flailed out to the sides, before he pulled all his limbs back under the covers. His chilled left foot, which kept creeping out from under the blanket, twitched in the heat. He sighed.

When they had asked him about his past Q had told them everything they had wanted to know from the point in time at which he had crafted his own life. To MI6 it was the only thing that mattered. What happened before that had become the fabric of his nightmares.

At the age of five he had found himself in a similar situation. He had climbed out of the bed and shivered at the touch of the cold carpet. Those floors could never be warmed with any amount of heating.

He had snook over to the window, knew by then which creeky floorboards to avoid. Sometimes he had heard people talk about sunset and sunrise, the beauty of dusk and dawn. To him dawn had always meant the bleary streaks of light over the foggy fields. The melancholy held a comfort beauty never had.

The glas had fogged up from his breath. His cheeks had turned red from the heat, his nose white from the cool glas. Maybe today he would go look for frogs again. With the prospect of the activity he had leaned back and wiped the window. That was when he had noticed the figure in the field. He had seen it a thousand times, the boy with his coat collar turned up against the wind. Soon it would start again: the screaming and the fighting. He’d shuddered. He would definitely go look for frogs.


	6. Chapter 6

VI

”Try to return your equipment in one piece next time, 003,” Q didn’t even look at the agent in front of him, ”Despite what you think, I do have a budget.”

Q’s job tested his limits everyday. A sea of code, some idiots thinking they could hack him and mountains of paper work. The last ripple to tip over his boat were these insufferably double-oh agents. They called them the best. He called them children. True to this classification he treated them alike when they did not return their equipment. Cold dismissal, dissapointment no more detectable than dust in the air and yet still there. He knew the cold shoulder often worked better than the alternative of yelling and punishment. The latter he could not afford in the first place.

Sometimes he wondered if it was a lost cause. That’s when he got a radio here and half a gun there.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next update will be on Tuesday.
> 
> To the person who left a comment on the last chapter: I accidentally deleted the chapter and couldn't reply to it anymore. I had some issues with the drafts, but I still couldn't quite figure out what you meant.

**_VII_ **

’THE R&D GLASS WALLS ARE NOW BULLET- AND TORPEDOPROOF’

The sign had manifested itself onto the entrance of the facilieties after 007’s latest escape. Bond rolled his eyes at it. ”A little dramatic, Q, don’t you think?”

”Attempting to shoot 002 through a bulletproof glass wall because she raided your secret scotch stash at Six. A little dramatic, 007, don’t you think?” 

”Touché.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next few chapters will be longer. I know the last two have been extremely short. Thank you for reading and leaving kudos.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the Kudos :)  
> Here's a very weird chapter eight.

**_VIII_ **

It was a shot in the dark, literally. And Q was greatful for it. He had had the sense to shut evrything down as soon as he had gotten a hint of an intruder in Q-Branch. He had seen the man’s silhouette for a brief second before he dove under a desk.

The footsteps in the room cut through the air crystal clear with the hum of the computers as the only other sound. Q held his breath in fear of it rushing through the air like a tidal wave. He didn’t have a gun or any other backup than three employees hidden under some other desks. He didn’t even know where they were. As an automated response his brain began to calculate all his means for a safe escape.

Number one. The whole branch was on lock down, separated even from R&D. There was no way to get out without a certain protocol, which could only be set in motion with the help of a computer. It would make both sound and produce light, so he discarded the plan and moved on.

Number two. He could get into R&D by typing in a long sequence of binary code into the key pad. This was a feature he had installed, but never logged. Not even M knew. Q considered how far away the lab was from his current position. Even if he could walk quietly enough for the intruder not to hear him there were a wide range of obastacles in the dark. Without a way to map them he would just sneak into his own death.

He would never admit it, but at that moment he had cussed in his mind, because the game was just like hide and seek. It had used to be one of his favourite childhood games. It required a mix of intelligence and skill. A plan and its flawless execution. But he had played against a powerful mind back then.

Number three. Gather a troop of the left over employees. He reprimanded himself for the idiotic idea in an instant. He had been smarter the last time he had checked. The last time he had checked was just because 007 had asked him about his IQ and Q had been secretly upset that he didn’t have up to date data. He did now. If only he could use it.

Number Four. Crawl to retrieve his handgun from the bottom desk drawer. This, he concluded, was something he could work with. Q considered his current location under one of the desks closest to the wall. There were two rows to crawl through. Each had waste bins screwed to the table, which meant there shouldn’t be anything unexpected lying under any of the desks. The only things that could go wrong were him either being too loud or bumping into someone else. His only other option was to stay in place. If there was one thing he had learned from hide and seek it was that staying put meant an inevitable death.

So he moved, beacuse there was a sick desire in him to win. Because wasn’t the youngest anymore. Because he wasn’t the dumbest anymore. He had always tried to outsmart his brother with an unhealthy amount of fury. The difference between this man and Sherlock was that the poor guy had no idea whom he was up against. Q had beat his brother once, just once and that was enough. He would beat this man just once too and then he would take a day off and sleep. First he had to crawl.

Never had he been this grateful for a slim figure. His backbone bent past each chair and waste bin with ease. The intruder still walked around. Obviously neither one of them had yet gotten what they wanted. Q was desperate to be the first.

He knew it was less than half a meter when he leaned forward. He almost dragged his torso along the floor in an attempt to pull out the drawer. So close. It was less than a meter and that was what pissed him off when the lights flicked on and a single shot echoed in the room.

Q looked at 007 in the doorway, ”Must you always ruin everything?” He didn’t realise he was still nearly ground against the floor with his arse in the air until he had spoken the words. Q retracted back to sit on his heals and ignored the blush, which crept up the base of his throat.

007 stalked towards his target and kicked the fallen gun away. For good measure he kicked the semi-concious man in the face. ”Sorry to spoil your fun. Perhaps you should schedule your little stripper performance, which would have gotten you killed anyway, for another day?”

The other three employees came out from under their desks while Q just glared. He pointedly refused James Bond’s outstretched hand. Instead he pushed himself up more with willpower than physical power. If there was one thing Sherlock and him had agreed on it was the hatred for third parties intercepting their games.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the scarceness in updates. This is just a little side project of mine, so its new additions come along whenever I feel like it. Comments and kudos are highly appreciated regardless.

**_IX_ **

At times he was certain the hallway changed colours at night, because his four year old mind could not wrap around the darkness, which resided there at night. His bare feet touched cold carpet and the only indications of life were his brother’s half open door and a slit of light under the bathroom door. He was headed the other way.

"Mummy," he whispered in the dark to the lump under the covers. It was only nine in the evening, but these days the time of day didn’t matter. His Mummy had dissolved into a permanent boneless creature in the bed.

Her hollow eyes turned to him as he stopped at the edge of the bed. Not long ago, before she had cried silently every night and started to stare into nothingness, he could have just crawled in. Instead he was left to fidget with his blanket and freeze his feet off.

She reached out for him, but her hand trembled and faltered in the air. He grasped it in his own and held on tight. Stunned, she blinked at him before she mumbled, "Go to bed, darling. It’s late already, isn’t it?"

He wanted to say no, because she wouldn’t know the difference if she tried, but he didn’t want to lie. Not to his own mother and not at all. So he placed her hand back on the bed and brushed his clammy fingers over her hair like she had used to do to him. "Night night, Mummy."

 

\---

 

Mycroft Holmes liked the peaceful two hours of time with a book every night. It was his own time away on an adventure with the harsh reality of the world tucked into the dark corridor outside of his room.

"My?" 

He looked up to where soft yellow light faded into dark brown shadows and his little brother. "What are you still doing up, Verril?"

"I couldn’t sleep. ’S too cold." His eyes were blown wide and his voice floated somewhere distant. "Can I?"

Mycroft nodded at the faded plea. Once upon a time they had been a family and Mummy the centre of comfort in it, but nothing ever stayed the same and life tended to choose the paths, which went through shadows. Verril did not know that yet. He was little, but big enough to have started to wean off of copious amounts of physical affection. Even more so after Father’s death followed by Mummy’s downfall. Now his limbs poked into Mycroft’s flesh and demanded attention.

He set his book down with a resigned sigh and ran hands over a bony hump until they had tailed all the way down to Verril’s little feet. His legs were folded against the side of Mycroft’s tighs, wrapped up in a blanket, but the ends of his limbs bathed out in the open air. Warm fingers brushed against cold soles like they had since the day Verril was born, "If only you would wear socks."

"I don’t like them," Verril muttered, nose scrunching up, "You know that."

Mycroft did all too well. His youngets brother hated socks, loved his tea with three spoons of sugar and always slept with one foot sticking out from under his blanket. He was a quiet child and drawn to electrical appliances because of their mix of practicality and theory, always reliable and never rash.

Sherlock ran off with him to experiment sometimes. They’d slice up grass to look at it under the microscope and spend hours out by the pond staring at fish. And then Mycroft would answer all of their questions with the help of illustrations in the many books in their library. But where Sherlock got fed up after the basics and would storm off with a huff, Verril would sit patiently and continue to listen until the end.

"Myc, Mummy is dying, isn’t she?"

Mycroft’s hands in his wild curls stopped for a single moment as he contemplated between a diplomatic lie and the brutal truth, but with Verril there had only ever been one answer. "Yes," the long breath against his neck prickled all the way down Mycroft’s spine, "Are you scared?" 

"Will she be okay?"

"Pardon me?" 

"Mummy," Verril pulled back to look into Mycroft’s eyes, "Will she not be in pain and sad anymore? Will she sleep well again?"

Melancholy dripped from his voice when he said, "Yes, Mummy will be alright."

"Then I’m not scared anymore."


	10. Chapter 10

**_X_ **

Q lay on the sofa in his living room, old leather molding to his body as sleep teased the edge of his consciousness ever so slightly. This was the worst of it: not being able to anything and not being able to sleep. Bleary eyed, he followed the shapes and colours of mute night time television in the hopes of drifting off into an equally surreal dream.

No such luck.

Instead his phone buzzed a frantic alert, loud in the quiet of his home. He reached for his glasses and frowned at the message, grabbing his laptop next. But his system wasn’t mistaken; on the CCTV feeds pointed at his doors (”Stop meddling, Mycroft,” he’d said once.”) a figure he knew as 007 marched down the pavement. Q sighed, because really, if he caved now he’d open Pandora’s box and there would be no going back. James Bond would simply bother him forever. 

Still, he got up. After all he was obliged to help his agents and maybe, if he took control and drew a clear line in the sand, Bond might listen to him for once. Out in the hallway the soft ding of the elevator annouced his late night guest.

”Honestly, Bond. Medical is not _that_ bad,” he murmured in the doorway, ”You do get shot without a flinch, surely you can handle a bit of anti-septic and gauze.”

And Bond, the bastard, looked sheepish for a moment, as though whatever he was going to say died on his lips. It didn’t leave Q with too many choices. 

”Come in and stop bleeding on my doormat.”

The agent remained silent and by proxy Q did too, because he’s too fucking tired for this. He took out a bottle of horrible Chardonnay reserved for the worst of nights, generously poured it into a mug and shoved it towards Bond.

”So, what’s the damage?”

”Stab wound to the arm, minor cuts and bruises,” Bond bit out and Q thought they’re playing a game of who can get away with the least words.

He let Bond drink in peace as he folded out the contents of his first aid pack on the kitchen table between them. As Bond got to work on his wounds, Q brewed himself a cup of tea. The agent hissed at the burn of disinfectant and Q listened to the blubbering kettle quiet, both meticulously precise with their work like they’d done it a thousand times before. And they had. 

Eventually, Q noticed it’s gone past four, he leaned on the kitchen counter, prompting Bond to speak with a wave of his hand.

”I lost your gun.”

”Tell me something new.” 

”Did I wake you?” 

”No.” He didn’t tell Bond that he wouldn’t be able to even if he tried, because Q slept so little his eyes itched constantly. He resisted the urge to rub them by putting the Chardonnay away while Bond half heartedly attempted to reassemble the remains of Q’s first aid kit.

”Just leave it,” Q told him and frowned at how exhausted his own voice sounded. ”Go home, Bond. Get drunk on ridiculously expensive scotch and punch a wall or whatever it is you do to stay sane, but keep me out of it. And don’t ever come here again.”

Bond got up to leave without a sound, nodding his head in acknowledgement. Q stood in the doorway as waited for the elevator to close and swallow Bond in its descent. He pulled the doormat in with his foot and shoved the door shut. He’d do something about the bloodstains later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I already mentioned, this story is sort of updated whenever since it's a drabble series. Please have patience with it. There should be another one soon-ish though.


	11. Chapter 11

**_XI_ **

”Q.” It was both a greeting and a call where he worked. His name was a mere letter and his hands held lives, or sometimes death.

”002,” he retorted, because they were all numbers and letters here with confident smirks on their faces and the skills to match them. He fiddled with the lipstick in his hands, until he was satisfied with the way the explosives were rigged.

”Now,” he turned to his agent, ”I’ve got a weaponized watch for you.” They went through all the little details of the watch, Q adding a gun, a phone and an earpiece to the equipment.

”Please bring everything back in one piece, agent. The watch is worth more than my monthly salary and I won’t hesitate to avenge the hole its destruction would carve into the branch budget.”

002 turned on his most charming smile as he holstered the gun. ”I treat my toys better than Bond, Q.”

”Better doesn’t mean you do it well, 002.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the tenses aren't too messed up, since I've had to change them.


	12. Chapter 12

 

**_XII_ **

Gone midnight, Q dragged himself out of MI6 in hopes of catching the last tube and perhaps a few hours of sleep at home. Nine days had dragged by in a haze as he solved a crisis in Serbia with Mycroft complaining about his interference via text every six hours. Q had punched back angry retorts in the loo, where his ragged and stubbly face looked even worse than he’d thought. Of course it had always been at an ungodly hour and of course he crashed on the couch in his office fifteen minutes later. In the end, however, the sofa was not a bed, the world hadn’t gone up in flames and Q ran on his last bit of caffeine fuelled sanity, staggering down the sidewalk.

As he made his way down to the platform, he tried to thumb out a last scathing text to his brother, giving up after mistyping the same word for the fourth time. Despite preferring textual communication, Q called his brother and tipped his head back against the tile walls of the station.

After the fourth ring Mycroft picked up with a bored remark. ”Some might think it rude to call at such an hour.”

”Of course you’d never sink to that level of mannerisms,” Q scoffed, because Mycroft obviously hadn’t been asleep. In the background he heard Anthea politely adress his brother in another language (one he hadn’t bothered to learn) and briefly thought of Mycroft and his undoubtedly constant frustration with the simplicity of the world. ”Besides, I am hardly as bad as Sherlock; I didn’t even _try_ to wake you. Not that you ever sleep.”

”Neither do you.”

Q frowned in annoyance at the remark. It was naturally another defect of the Holmes brothers and Mycroft, as usual, wasn’t bothered by it in the slightest. ”Yes, well, either way… Serbia is over now. No need to get you knickers in a twist, or have your over-competent assitant send passive aggressive messages, since that seems to be your preferred brand of sulking.”

”I do not sulk.”

”Sherlock says the same about himself.” The carriages rolled in and Q slipped into the near empty quitetude. Mycroft murmured a command to his assitant in another foreign language and Q rolled his eyes. ”May I hang up now or would like me to listen to your conduction of politics?”

”Oh, don’t be sarcastic. It doesn’t suit you.”

”I never meant for it to."

”You’re tedious when you are tired. Always have been,” Mycroft sighed and it carried as much nostalgia as he’d ever allow for, ”Come for tea on Saturday.”

”If work allows for it. You know how it is, brother dear.” Q had learned not to tip either way a long time ago.

”Naturally.” Mycroft let a pause hang heavy and deliberate. ”Get some sleep. Exhaustion doesn’t become you.”

”Yes, after all, we can’t all be Sherlock,” Q said as he reached his stop.

”Hardly a loss.”

”No, indeed.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are highly appreciated. Thank you to anyone who's given this a chance.


	13. Chapter 13

_**XIII** _

He stood in the basement lavatories and splashed cold water onto his face as if it could undo two and a half days of being stuck at the office. Q glanced at his blurry reflection in the mirror and patted his face dry with scratchy paper towels. At this rate he’d have to take a bag of laundry home again and bring more clean shirts and underwear to slip into when one work day turned into several. By now his cardigan was protesting to it’s best abilities: stretched out, wrinkled and, since last night, even stained. Q sighed, tugged at the hem of it and forced his hands through his greasy hair in the absence of a comb. At the very least he’d saved a few hundred lives, if not more, and now that he even had clean teeth and the prospect of going home seemed suddenly likely, his mood was merely exhausted instead of simply soured. He grabbed his toothbrush from the counter and headed for the door.

”And they say women take forever,” Eve Moneypenny drawled as soon as the door swung open and Q almost reflexively kicked her

”Christ, Eve. Is this honestly what they pay you for?” He took in her impeccable form, leaning against in figure hugging clothes adorned with stilettos he wouldn’t dare to dream of ever being able to walk in. Of course she pushed herself upright with ease and fell into a graceful stride with him, nonchalant about the weapons clinging to her feet.

She ignored his remark and said, ”M is very pleased with the way you handled that conflict in Lima.”

To his surprise, Q noticed that somewhere along the grey hallway Eve had taken control of their little stroll and decided to steer them towards the elevator ahead. ”And what good does that do me? I’d rather he just increased the R&D budget, or 007 won’t have a new toy to break on his next trip to whatever shithole is on the verge of thrusting us all into destruction.”

”Tut tut, you’ve become so cynical, Sunshine.”

He grumbled at the hateful pet name and stopped on the spot to glare at her. ”Would you mind telling me where we are headed? Because I have actual things to do, unlike you apparently.”

”Someone’s got their knickers in a twist,” she remarked, eyebrows riding up despite the fact that she was not one bit surprised, ”I am taking you to lunch upstairs.”

”Thanks, but no thanks, Eve. Like I said: better things to do, such as kip in a bed that is an actual bed.”

”Look, if you and your skinny arse are going to pass out anyway, you might as well eat something beforehand and not wake up to screaming hunger.”

He kept staring at her in the hopes that Moneypenny would simply back down, only to remember he’d forgotten to put in eyedrops and now his eyeballs itched like hell. ”Fine,” Q gave in reluctantly to jam the heels of his hands into the sockets of his eyes, ”but you’re paying.”

”Naturally.”

He re-adjusted his glasses and began to plot out what he could order to cut as deep a hole into Moneypenny’s bank account as possible. He didn’t realise his petty revenge had distracted him from the fact that he was still clutching a toothbrush in one hand, until the elevator doors closed and the bloody box hummed as a sign of ascent.

 

* * *

 

Q wolfed down his lunch, which also happened to substitute all of the previous day’s meals, with his eyes fixed over Moneypenny’s shoulder. Unfortunately, his line of sight fell on a secretary with equine features, masticating her food with a half open mouth and a slight overbite. If Sherlock hadn’t been hell bent on annoying Mycroft with a systematic lack of manners throughout their childhood, he might have been bothered by it. Instead, he kept watching the woman as she managed to get some lipstick onto her teeth and her friends politely continued eating like they were neither disgusted nor saw anything absurd in the situation.

Moneypenny glanced over her own shoulder. ”What are you looking at?”

”Oh, nothing. How’s your new apartment?”

”Not a complete dump. Closet’s still a tad tight, but at least I don’t have to worry about someone trying to beat me up on my way home.”

”Honestly, what kind of fool would attack you?”

”You’d be surprised. Though I have a nagging suspicion word eventually got ’round, since no one bothered me in quite a while, apart from some snooty teenagers, who were obviously new to whatever gang happened to patrol the area.” She made a face at the memory and then smiled as she poked her pasta salad for the fifteenth time without actually eating any of it.

”Moneypenny, I have to ask,” Q said, ”have you ever killed anyone with your shoe?”

She laughed, loud and unashamed, even as heads started turning towards them. Q stuffed more chips into his mouth, torn between satisfaction at amusing her and irritation because he hadn’t meant to. ”If I did, I could hardly tell you, dear,” she chimed with mischief dripping from her voice just as Tanner showed up from the general direction of the queue.

”Mind if I sit here?” he asked even though he’d already decided to do so anyway and set his tray down, ”You two seem to be having fun.”

”And you got out of the aftermath quick,” Moneypenny commented and, to Q’s relief, finally slid two pennes into her mouth.

Tanner shrugged. ”Rather a matter of not having more time to sort it out. Two MPs are up there in a meeting with M and I thought I might as well make a run for it. Maybe get a something else than Digestives between stacks of paperwork for a change.” His mouth twitched on one side in an attempt at a smile while he cast a pointed look at his portion of meatballs, mashed potatoes and a colourful selection of overcooked veggies. Q thought, despite his obviously relaxed posture, the job had permanently etched an expression of worry onto his face the same way age had taken half of his hair. ”You’re a rare treat,” Tanner said to Q and attacked his meal.

”Contrary to common believe, I do occasionally both eat and sleep and sometimes I even do it at home.”

”He’s got quite the appetite too,” Eve cut in, ”When I offered to buy lunch I didn’t expect him to have fish and chips, two snicker bars, milk and an apple. There’s a betting pool going on that the poor sod never eats at all, though that’s obviously disproven now.”

”Where do all these bloody bets come from?” Tanner asked, skipping the comment about Q’s eating habits to the Quartermaster’s surprise.

”I’d like to know the same, though I’d be willing to bet it’s all in the hands of Moneypenny herself.”

”I admit to nothing!”

Q hummed and and absentmindedly counted the number of pennes loitering in her plastic dish. His lunch began to settle at the bottom of his stomach in a tiring way and his pre-Earl Grey grogginess from earlier came creeping back with every waking minute he sat in the cafeteria, attempting to make conversation. He yawned openly and said, ”I’ll honestly have to go home now, Eve, or I swear I’ll fall asleep right on this bloody table.”

”Catch as many hours as you can; I’ll do my very best to keep the leeches off your back.” Moneypenny flashed him a bright smile and Q gave her wan one in return, since it was all he could manage. He grabbed his toothbrush off the table and headed for the exit, self-consciously fidgeting with his worn out cardigan.

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sick and felt like writing something quick.

**_XIV_ **

Q pushed open the door to the rooftop and gulped a large breath of  fresh evening air into his lungs. Break times were fantastic, when taken properly, instead of stuffing three bisquits into his mouth in the break room while waiting for his tea to steep. Though he suspected taking a break to watch the sunset wasn’t considered entirely conventional even in his department.

He sat down on the ledge with a lower roof two stories below and took a long look around the city, illuminated by beams of sunlight from behind, where it was already setting for the day. London was as familiar to him by now as his old childhood home, so he took his glasses off and set them down next to him to see the world in a slightly blurred mix of vibrant colours. Two more hours, he thought, and he’d get to go home with a full weekend off afterwards.

With his fingers wrapped around a warm mug, Q sipped at bitter, black coffee with his face twisting at the disgusting taste. What he didn’t do to save some lives for the sake of Queen and country. And he didn’t even get as much as a thank you, merely bad one liners to excuse lost and destroyed equipment.

”You put prototypes of your technological genius on the line and the 00s offer their lives up in return,” Eve had once said nonchalantly like it wasn’t much of a sacrifice on anyone’s part. Then again, M had warned him of this, when he’d first started working at MI6. Mycroft had said it over and over again throughout his childhood, a life lesson to be learned, and Q thought it wasn’t the first time his brother had been annoyingly on point.

He thumbed out the message ’Thanks for not tripping us into a new war.’ To his brother and finished his coffee, swearing off of the liquid for at least another week. When he headed back inside to navigate 009 through his mission in Bardejov, the sky was more blue than orange and the caffeine kicked in like a drug.


	15. Chapter 15

**_XV_ **

Eventually he had to go to Mycroft’s, because they were brothers and family was a calling to all but Sherlock. Q wanted to take the tube and walk the rest of the way, be stubborn, but Mycroft’s house was guarded in a way that only allowed access to his own government issue cars and Q couldn’t be bothered to tamper with the systems, so he got into the black car waiting outside Vauxhall. He sank into a trance as soon as the car pulled into traffic and let someone else navigate him through the mess of London.

It reminded him a lot of when him and Sherlock in the back of a car bringing them home from school and they’d pretended to sleep in turns so as to not have to talk. Only Q tended to actually fall asleep and wake with mussed up hair and drool drying on his chin, asking after Mummy in his youngest years. He learned not to by the end of second grade and Sherlock stopped paying attention to when he woke and fell asleep, eyes fixed on the landscape outside. The same happened to Q now, except that Sherlock wasn’t with him and his destination wasn’t hours away, but on the other side of London and in the instance towering in front of him.

Q got out of the car and thanked the driver, looking to the sky for clues of how long they’d been parked in front of the house while he slept. It hadn’t started raining yet, though the clouds gathered threateningly overhead. He walked up to the house not unlike their childhood home and barged in without knocking. The door had been left unlocked for him and the foyer lights on. He shrugged out of his coat and left his precious messenger bag with a laptop full of state secrets on the floor and made his way towards the drawing room.

"You should sleep more, Verril,” Mycroft said and he was already pouring them tea into wafer thin porcelain cups with golden rims.

"So should you. You look terrible.”

"Slovakia caused a surprising amount of trouble this week,” Mycroft said and they each eyed each others dark eyebags wearily.

"Oh, I know. 008 is out there in case you’ve forgotten.” They both knew Mycroft doesn’t forget things. ”How have you been besides that?”

"As well as might be expected. Elections coming up. Sherlock hunting down a serial killer.”

"And how is that going?”

"For Sherlock or the people around him?” Mycroft asked in all seriousness. "He’s having a blast and Detective Inspector Lestrade is ready to rip his throat out, because John’s attempts at making him a bit more sensitive have all failed.”

"Not surprising,” Q muttered and took a long sip of delightfully noble tea Mycroft has no doubt imported from some back corner of China. He got the urge to draw his feet up onto the chair and tuck them in beneath him like he used to as a child, when he and Mycroft held a daily little tea party that was rarely graced by Sherlock’s presence. Q had grown out of his tiny dimensions and rather suspected attempting the same position now would end up looking ridiculous, especially with Mycroft poised gracefully in his armchair.

Mycroft switched the tea cup from one hand to another to grab a shortbread. "When’s the last time you’ve seen him?” 

"The last time he came by for Christmas,” Q said wondering if it’s really been that long, because that was four years ago. ”Surprisingly enough for all the chaos he causes I have yet to just run into him on the street. London’s so much bigger than Sussex after all.”

"Indeed.”

"I assume you do get a glimpse of him on the rare occasion.”

"Never out of his own will,” Mycroft graced him with a hint of a smile like it was an inside joke and in the Holmes family it might’ve just counted as one. "He’s been so much better with John Watson running after him than he ever was with me.”

"You weren’t meant to be his babysitter to begin with, Mycroft. I think the Moriarty deal proved as much. He’s always needed someone to run with him, not after him,” Q said and recalled some of the days him and Sherlock had battled the world head on, dashing across the estate with all their childhood energy released in a single sprinting competition.

He downed the rest of his tea and washed his melancholy memories away with it. Q reached for a shortbread himself to avoid Mycroft worrying about his weight too. They discussed work with their typical Holmesian detachment as they consumed the remaining tea and cookies.

"I think I’ll leave now. My next shift starts in a short eleven hours and I’d like to get a wink of sleep before that,” Q announced shortly afterwards with half sincere regret. Mycroft nodded his acknowledgement, but didn’t pay him the courtesy of walking him to the door and deliver a formal goodbye. They were brothers, familiar familiarity a given, Q thought as he left Mycroft’s house and got back to his own life in the present.


	16. Chapter 16

_**XVI** _

"I swear if one more terrorist decides tonight’s the night I will personally skin them,” Q said over the comms with near comical seriousness and Bond snorted.

"You don’t even fly. It would take you half a lifetime to reach them.”

A screech of metal grinding against something it _definitely_ shouldn’t grind against pierced Q’s ears over the speakers and only served to double his irritation. "Excuse me for not having a deathwish, 007. You know most people are reasonable beings, unlike you.”

"Wrong profession, Q.”

"What ever happened to the good old days of espionage that involved more spying and less of whatever it is you’re paid to do?” Q sipped at his too cool tea and mused that a younger version of himself would be appalled he’d succumb to such an act, but Bond is a nuisance and his sleep schedule is nonexistent.

Bond cursed in an angry whisper, tires of his car skidding in a way that seemed almost perverse to Q. He did make the bloody tires bulletproof, but James Bond seemed to simply exist to test the limits of every improvement he made. Toying with the idea of sending 007 out with a lighter and nothing more next time, Q smirked and said, "You know, if you wreck that Aston as well, you’ll have not only me but also Moneypenny waiting to wring your neck. She’s rather fed up with having to put through budget expansions on your behalf.”

"I’ve taken my chances with her before and I’m still alive.”

"Right. You merely fell off a bridge bleeding through yet another ridiculously expensive suit, not to mention the following drinking binge. Just dandy. At least the video footage of the incident is a delight."

Bond fell silent, though Q could still hear the disturbing background noises he’d already grown accustomed to in his time rearing the double-oh agents. For a few moments he had to wonder if he’d been a little too vile, reminded of sleepless nights yelling at Sherlock through his bedroom wall to stop playing the violin at two am.

"Bit sadistic." Bond’s words carried the sound of his customary smirk even across a scratchy connection covering thousands of miles.

Q huffed. Something akin to relief rushed through him even as made a remark about speed limits on mountainside roads and decided to thread on the thin ice of their banter.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanted to update, although I've been really blocked with my writing lately. I just like writing slightly socially inept people.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt like writing them as kids.

**XVI**

He squatted in a field with stalks of hay shooting up between his legs and into his face. This way he occupied less space, Verril knew, even if it made his nose itch uncomfortably. Somewhere at the edge of the field he could hear Sherlock creep along the borders of the undergrowth like a predator out for blood. But oh, Verril wasn’t about to lose this time around.

He’d studied the big book on the fauna of boreal forests – the one with the shiny pages and annotated sketches – that’s been sitting untouched for years in the back of the library, the one Sherlock’s declared boring half a decade ago. So, he knew if he sat still enough for long enough, Sherlock would pass him and perhaps even lose interest in the game. According to Mycroft, forfeit would be a victory on his part, another tally mark he could scratch under his initial on the back wall of the house.

Verril tensed at the sound of Sherlock leaving the undergrowth, presumably taking a hands on approach to winning this round of hide and seek. There was the telltale rustle of the hay and he could imagine the cloud of golden dust and minuscule insects following in Sherlock’s wake. His nose tickled even more. _Do not sneeze._ Sherlock cutting through the grass quietly, hands poised over an endless sea of irritant pollen. There had been a time when they had played this game in the garden, shrieking at one another and hiding in thorny hedges.

But they were older now and Sherlock had insisted on a more challenging environment to play in, not that Verril minded. He took a few long, steady breaths to fight off the burn in his legs from being in an uncomfortable position for such a prolonged period of time.

“Sherlock!” He perked up at the sound of Mycroft’s voice. “Get out of the field! How many times have I told you you’ll get ticks?”

Verril dared to take a quick peek above the grass, because Mycroft appearing usually constituted a shift in Sherlock’s attention. Sherlock yelled something at Mycroft with his back turned to his younger brother, though Verril didn’t want to risk it. He sunk back into hiding in the hopes that their screaming match wouldn’t unfold into a full blown fight. After all, they had all been doing surprisingly well this summer: Mycroft had gotten Verril new blackout curtains and earplugs to keep Sherlock’s nighttime tantrums from disturbing him, although Sherlock had kept the angry violin concertos to a bare minimum this year.

Mycroft came closer, branches snapping under his feet as he said, “I hope you haven’t subjected Verril to such a danger.”

“Nothing’s happened to him, ever! Or me for that matter, not that _you_ would _care_.”

“Don’t be ludicrous, Sherlock. I’m equally responsible for the both of you.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, you simply insist on twisting things to fit your insipid theories,” Mycroft’s voice tilted in that particular way it always did right before he insulted someone, “Confirmation bias, little brother. How very ordinary of you, but then again: you still like to play hide and seek.”

Verril could almost hear Sherlock gasp, armour coming up as he tried to think of a vile comeback. So this was where they were headed then.

“Stop fighting,” he shouted and got to his feet in the middle of the field. He didn’t want to play hide and seek anymore and he didn’t want to spend all summer trapped at home with Sherlock and Mycroft. Verril stomped out of the field, disregarding the fact that he was trampling the very poppies and gold yarrow he’d been so careful to preserve on his way in.

“Verril-” For a short moment Mycroft was stunned and even Sherlock stared at him at a total loss, but in their little universe balance was bound to come undone. “I knew you two were up to something idiotic. Verril, come here. The fields are very dangerous; you could get Lyme borreliosis, you know that.”

He caught up with Verril and grabbed him by the arms to inspect every exposed inch of skin without taking notice of the tears welling up in his little brother’s eyes. “You seem to have gotten lucky this time,” Mycroft said, pulling Verril’s shirt over his head to do a proper check.

“Ugh, stop,” his baby brother snapped and folded his arms protectively around his bare torso. “I don’t want you touching me. I’m upset, can’t you see?”

Mycroft let him go, though his eyes still carded over every bit of visible skin. “Verril, I’m sorry, but-”

“You’re not, though.” He stared at Mycroft with seething anger for ruining a perfectly alright afternoon. Not that it was anything out of the ordinary. Verril, with all the might of a shirtless six-year-old, stomped off towards the house.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**XVIII**

Sherlock’s face was splashed across all the tabloids once more, Q noted on his way home from work. It was raining again, that sullen time of year when crime picked up and his brother grew insufferable. Q was only out to get some earl grey, milk that hadn’t gone sour from sitting in his fridge open and untouched for ten long days, something resembling a dinner perhaps, when he it caught his eye.

The deer stalker. He imagined Sherlock hated it; he’d never been one for hats. Q remembered him him running around with frostbitten ears in January, wet locks curling into themselves even tighter in the autumn rain, and Mycroft - always there, somewhere - looking on with horror. But here Sherlock was with a hat as his trademark. The things John Watson could do, Q thought. Such an unassuming figure in the background and yet Sherlock’s well being rested in the steady surgeon’s hands clasped together behind his back.

Q picked out a magazine with the picture slightly out of focus, Sherlock’s sharp lines and flashlight bright cheekbones blurring in favour of Baker Street’s façade and John Hamish Watson.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was having a bad day and needed some snark and weapons.

To Q, only two types of situations existed in which anyone would use a honey sweet voice on him. The first, which he did not mind on principle but always happened to be timed badly, was Moneypenny’s insistence he come to lunch with her. The second, the very predicament he found himself in now, was the inevitably pounce of a double-oh agent fetching a toy to go play cops and robbers with state secrets in another country. This time he was hounded by 002, perhaps the only person with a worse track record in regard to equipment than James sodding Bond, though the competition didn’t extend to who can cause the most international incidences.

“My darling Quartermaster,” she crooned from five desks away, “Did you hear I’m going to Sao Paulo?”

“Yes, and I hear you intend to tan.”

“Of course. I have spent the better part of the year stuck in Lublin in the name of Queen and Country. Maybe the old bitch will grant me an afternoon under the sun.”

“You do know it is only April?” he asked and finished up his work while she fiddled with a broken trinket on his desk.

Q didn’t bother paying attention to her mumbled response, certain it was sarcastic and more than mildly insulting. Instead he lead her to the safe with the double-oh equipment allotments and pulled out her tray.

“My what have we here?” 002 asked and grabbed a pair of shoes of the tray.

“Careful with those,” Q hurried to say, “They can kill a man.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

He had to admit he was proud of this newest batch of gear, all small and a dip into an entirely new field he knew would be appreciated by his agent. “If I may-” Q gestured at the shoe and 002 handed it over. The Quartermaster knocked the stiletto heel on the edge of his work top and watched her eyes go wide at the curved blade sliding out of the base.

“Okay, what the hell  _ is _ this?”

“The weapon of your dreams. I assume you can imagine what to do with it. Now, you need to apply considerable force on only the heel to engage the blade. If you activate it accidentally, push it back in against the heel of the other shoe. Don’t try anything funny with a staircase or a table leg; you’ll get stuck...”

He paused to watch the agent slip the shoes on for a test run, kicking out the blade with a wide smile spreading across her face. “You know, now that I think about it, these seem very familiar. Doesn’t Eve own this exact pair?”

“Yes, well, Moneypenny was kind enough to test the prototype and what was I going to do with a pair of blue stilettos in her size?”

“Waltz around the office demanding justice for your equipment?”

“You’d be the first on the list.”

“Don’t discredit James. He deserves a proper spanking for that last stunt he pulled.”

“Yes, well,” Q cleared his throat and turned back to the tray. They haven’t got all day, after all. He picked up a leg garter and said, “This here is lined internally with reinforced steel webbing to make it double as a pair of handcuffs in the event of an emergency. The clasp here will make it triple as a gun holster for your Beretta 98 FS Inox issued as an addition to the Walther.” 

Q smiled. He was no longer nervous in her presence like he used to be around all these deadly people held on a seemingly loose leash by the higher ups. Now, he could tell the little quirks shining through their armors, integrate a piece of each of them into their equipment. 

“Last, but by no means least, trace lipstick. Swipe it on a suspect and it will be absorbed through the skin to leave a blood trace for the next 72 hours. Harmless biologically when applied to yourself or others.” He capped the little thing and handed it over knowing he’ll never get it back.

In fact, he doubted he would see any of his equipment again, assuming his inventions even survive the volatile nature of 002. But he would forgive her because she was going to save the world and waltz right back into his office with a bottle of wine and a heartfelt apology.


End file.
